


The dark before the dawn

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 02:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5988295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter 4 of the Mapmaker Series. A human woman joins the company of Thorin Oakenshield on the quest to Erebor as a mapmaker and finds a lifelong love.</p><p>Thorin suffers the effects of gold sickness, alienating even his true love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The dark before the dawn

You had never really liked the treasure room of Erebor. You had certainly spent enough time there in those early days, when Thorin still invited you to share his view of the legendary hoard of Thror, and plied you with jewels, insisting that you must be adorned in a manner befitting the beloved of the King under the Mountain. But the vast, glittering chamber always struck you as overwhelming – even suffocating, somehow. A dark gloom seemed to hang over the place, and now that you’d watched this room and its contents take their devastating toll on Thorin, you hated it in earnest.

Yet here you were, creeping in almost on tiptoes, as though dragon fire might yet erupt from the shadows and consume you. In reality, all that awaited you in this dreaded chamber was Thorin. Your Thorin…only not your Thorin anymore. You’d seen Balin’s tears, Kili’s bewilderment, even a shaken Dwalin describing one of his oldest friends threatening to kill him. Still, you held out the hope that if anyone could get through to him, it would be you. You, who wore his courting braid in your hair, who had found your home in his arms.

He faced away from you, surveying his wealth. He wore a heavy golden crown along with thick furs and ornately embroidered robes, looking every bit a king. Your heartbeat thumped against your chest as you approached him. “Thorin?” 

He turned, and you saw the restlessness in his eyes, even as a smile formed on his lips. “My lady. Welcome.” 

“Thorin, will you walk out with me?” If only you could coax him away from this accursed treasure, might not his mind clear a bit? 

His smile faded. “I cannot. The search for the arkenstone must continue.” His eyes flickered distractedly toward the heaps of gold that surrounded you. 

You tried to speak reassuringly. “Everyone is looking for the arkenstone. The search will continue, even if you enjoy a few moments of refreshment.” 

He walked close to you, and with a sideways glance around the room, spoke low in your ear. “One of them has betrayed me. Maybe more. Someone is keeping it from me.” 

Your heart sank at his words, and as he paced away from you once more, you took a few steps to follow him. “Thorin, these are your friends, your family. None of them would ever betray you. If you would just come with me, think about something else for a little while…” You reached out soothingly toward him, but he suddenly seized your wrist before you could touch him, making you gasp with surprise. There was a new suspicion in his narrowed eyes. 

“Are you helping them?” he hissed. “Did they send you here? Are you part of their plan?” 

“Thorin!” You stared at him in shock, trying to pull free from his strong grip, but he only grasped you more tightly and shook you roughly by your arm, shouting, “are you?” The growing lump in your throat painfully choked you, and you only shook your head. He regarded you warily for a few moments more, then let go of you as he turned away. “Leave me,” he growled. “If I see you here again I’ll send you out to the bowman, the only payment he’ll get from me.”

You climbed the steep steps out of the treasure room, your pace quickening until you were running through the halls of Erebor, hot tears blinding you. You vaguely heard someone calling your name after you passed an open doorway, but you didn’t stop until you’d reached your own bedchamber and slammed the door shut behind you, falling to your knees as sobs wrenched themselves from your throat. You cried out your heartbreak, anger, and despair until you could cry no more, and then you simply lay motionless, feeling the cold stone of the floor against your cheek. 

You didn’t know how long you’d been there when Bilbo and Balin found you. They nearly panicked at first, assuming you were hurt or ill, but when you shook your head and whispered one word – “Thorin” – they exchanged knowing looks and helped you to a chair. Balin disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a cup of mulled wine in his hand and Dwalin in tow. Fortified by the wine, you told the story of your encounter with Thorin as they listened grimly. 

“Well, that’s it, lassie,” Dwalin finally said. “You’ll have to stay away from him. He’s too unpredictable…dangerous. Best we all just leave him alone.” He shook his head with regret and grasped your shoulder bracingly, and Balin said, kindly, “why don’t you just rest, dear.” You nodded, suddenly feeling very tired, and they left you.

You woke early the next morning, weary from a fitful night. Wrapping yourself in a robe, you sat listlessly in an armchair, drawing your feet up underneath you. There was a timid knock at your door, and when you opened it, there stood Bilbo, bearing a tray with a cup of tea, a small cake, a bit of cheese, and an apple. His kindness nearly brought tears to your eyes, and you stood back, saying, “please…come in, sit.” 

The hobbit set the tray down on the table beside the cold grate and, rubbing his hands together, said cheerfully, “what we need here is a nice fire.” He went to work while you began to eat, and soon you were both enjoying the warmth of a crackling fire. Bilbo sat silently in the other armchair for some time before asking the question that hung heavy over you. “What will you do now?” 

You sighed, shaking your head and absentmindedly fingering the tassel on your robe. “I don’t know,” you confessed at last. “If Thorin is truly lost to me, there is no life for me here. And yet, I don’t know if I can bring myself to leave.” 

Bilbo nodded soberly. “You know,” he ventured, “when this is all over, I’m going back to the Shire, and Gandalf with me. You could travel with us if you decide to go home to Bree.” 

You smiled gratefully, touched by his concern. “Thank you, Bilbo. That does ease my mind. Of course,” you added, with a bitter laugh, “that is assuming we all survive the war he seems determined to start.” Bilbo looked somber and you both fell silent once more. Abruptly you asked, “and the arkenstone? Any sign of it?” The hobbit slowly shook his head. “I wonder,“ you mused, to yourself as much as to Bilbo, “if he had it, would things be better? Or not? I don’t know what to hope for anymore.” Bilbo said nothing, but stared thoughtfully into the flames.

Only a few days later, Fili would breathlessly tell you about the awful scene on the rampart, and the revelation of Bilbo’s terrible secret. “I believe he would have killed Bilbo if we hadn’t stopped him!” Fili finished, shaking his head in sadness and disbelief. 

You were barely able to absorb this new blow. The arkenstone, found…and lost again, placed beyond Thorin’s reach by the one he trusted perhaps more than any of you. What this would do to Thorin, you couldn’t imagine, and the knowledge that kind, courageous little Bilbo was outside, in the camp of Thorin’s enemies, made Erebor feel even lonelier.

That morning found you with your parchments spread out on a large table in your sitting room, ink bottles and quills scattered about. You were passing the time – and forcing yourself not to dwell on the looming threat of the armies gathering in the valley – by illustrating a map from the journey to Erebor, and were engrossed in putting the finishing touches on a particularly fine rendering of a waterfall when a knock came at the door. Still working, you called, “come in,” and when you completed the last stroke of the pen and looked up, Thorin stood in your doorway. 

You stood up quickly, the quill falling from your hand, and instinctively took a step back. A pained look crossed his face, and he walked into the room very slowly, as though afraid of frightening you. He had shed his crown and all the other trappings of royalty and was clad in his simple tunic and trousers. “Amrâlimê, I am so sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am so sorry for everything. I have been a fool – and you deserve so much better.” His voice broke on these last words. 

Hardly daring to hope, you walked slowly around the table to stand in front of him. He looked younger, healthier, less burdened than you’d seen him in a long time, and there was a new light in his blue eyes. You took one tentative step closer. “Thorin?” you murmured. Haltingly, you reached out to cradle his cheek with your palm. His breath caught and his lips trembled as he leaned into your touch, and your eyes welled up. “Thorin, it’s _you_ …my love!” With that, he dropped at your feet, pressing your hand to his lips, wetting it with his tears.

Thorin’s reconciliation with his men would be a display of strength and resolve, showing them that the leader they knew and had followed so loyally was back among them and ready to fight. Only you would see him on his knees, pleading brokenly for your forgiveness. And it was forgiveness that you readily granted, weeping your own tears of joy that your true love had finally come home.


End file.
